The scent of blood suddenly fills his nose, completely obliterating everything else. He ceases to feel the man beneath him, ceases to hear his voice or see the way the plants around them change. The universe, Tony’s very existence, has narrowed down to the smell wafting up from the tear in the guy’s lip. It’s too much. Too overpowering. He can’t fight it, and every warning and protest offered up by the part of his mind that remembers what it’s like to be human goes quiet as the predator takes over.
Tony doesn’t heart the lumbering footsteps of the strange creature approaching. He doesn’t smell it or notice the way the air flow has been displaced by its arrival. He’s too far gone, too close to finally sinking his fangs into flesh and blood. Mouth opening wider, he leans in for the kill—
—and then it’s gone.
It takes him a second to register that he’s been yanked away from the man’s body. It takes another to recognize that the rush of wind and the weightlessness is himself flying through the air. Like a splash of cold water to the face, it snaps him out of the frenzied bloodlust enough to figure out that he’s just been pulled away from—from – name, he has a name, what’s his name? - Ned. Ned. Agent Jay. The guy who plays the resurrection game with a touch.
The information returns with the onset of sanity, and while he’s been mentally absent from the situation, his body has taken over, twisting in the air and landing on his feet like a cat. It’s just as well. If he’d tried to do it, it’s likely that he wouldn’t have been able to.
He looks from the giant… statue thing - what the hell is that? - to Ned behind it. The hunger’s still there. The scent of blood’s still in the air. It would be so easy to slip back into it and attack again. Part of him wants to, urges him to dart around the big thing and rip Ned’s throat out. The rest of him, appalled, refuses.
“You okay?” He doesn’t come any closer, forces himself to take a step backward away from him. “I didn’t bite you, did I? The blood—” Focus, Stark. “—it’s not from me?”
no subject
Tony doesn’t heart the lumbering footsteps of the strange creature approaching. He doesn’t smell it or notice the way the air flow has been displaced by its arrival. He’s too far gone, too close to finally sinking his fangs into flesh and blood. Mouth opening wider, he leans in for the kill—
—and then it’s gone.
It takes him a second to register that he’s been yanked away from the man’s body. It takes another to recognize that the rush of wind and the weightlessness is himself flying through the air. Like a splash of cold water to the face, it snaps him out of the frenzied bloodlust enough to figure out that he’s just been pulled away from—from – name, he has a name, what’s his name? - Ned. Ned. Agent Jay. The guy who plays the resurrection game with a touch.
The information returns with the onset of sanity, and while he’s been mentally absent from the situation, his body has taken over, twisting in the air and landing on his feet like a cat. It’s just as well. If he’d tried to do it, it’s likely that he wouldn’t have been able to.
He looks from the giant… statue thing - what the hell is that? - to Ned behind it. The hunger’s still there. The scent of blood’s still in the air. It would be so easy to slip back into it and attack again. Part of him wants to, urges him to dart around the big thing and rip Ned’s throat out. The rest of him, appalled, refuses.
“You okay?” He doesn’t come any closer, forces himself to take a step backward away from him. “I didn’t bite you, did I? The blood—” Focus, Stark. “—it’s not from me?”